


Bliss (interrupted or otherwise)

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mary sucks, Not S4 Compliant, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 08:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14016603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: John would be absolutely content to just fall asleep right here, before ten o’clock on a Saturday night, Sherlock a soft, quiet, still weight against him.  Lord, what has become of them.





	Bliss (interrupted or otherwise)

**Author's Note:**

> Not S4 compliant in that I think S4 is a ploy for something else (EMP? Blog theory? John is dying? Super unreliable narrator? Who knows?) that will be revealed in S5 as part of a play of 5 acts. Visit [garkgatiss](http://garkgatiss.tumblr.com/) and her meta for more info. I do borrow some things from the series though, in just one teeny paragraph.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked, because I am An Island and also a lazy piece of shit JUST LIKE SHERLOCK.

Sherlock’s back arches; his body flutters around John’s cock, and John’s mouth waters as thick, pearly ribbons stream onto Sherlock’s bare stomach. 

“That’s it…” John breathes heavy in Sherlock’s ear, giving his cock one last squeeze, then rubbing his wet hand up his belly, stopping short of the edge of his rucked up t-shirt. He stops thrusting, relishing the quivers and contractions of Sherlock’s pelvic muscles around his erection. “So gorgeous, you feel so beautiful…”

“John,” Sherlock pushes his head back into the pillow, one last, pearly, white drop of fluid landing just below his navel. His body goes limp all at once: his thighs flop further apart, his spine and neck going slack, and his left shoulder blade presses uncomfortably into John’s chest as he slumps down. He turns his face into John’s, nose pressing into his temple. “Now you,” his breath is hot on John’s face. “John…” he swallows thickly, chest heaving. “You now…”

“Alright,” John tightens his arms around Sherlock’s ribcage, his forearms smearing through the thick cum on his abdomen. He buries his face in Sherlock’s sweaty neck and begins thrusting again, pushing up into the tight, slick heat of Sherlock’s still twitching body.

“That’s it,” Sherlock’s long fingers stroke the edge of John’s hairline. “You’re so close.”

John is incredibly close, teetering right back on the edge after pulling away to fully witness Sherlock’s orgasm. “Sherlock.”

“Come in me,” Sherlock rumbles in John’s ear, still breathless, and he does. His bollocks pull up tight as if by command, and he’s coming, pouring into Sherlock’s hot body. He feels it slick out and drip down his balls as he thrusts through it, and the tiny part of his brain still capable of coherent thought is glad he thought to push his boxer shorts under Sherlock’s arse before he lost himself completely in that long, lean body.

His orgasm is over far too soon--as it always is--and John’s body goes boneless beneath Sherlock, slumping back into the mattress. Slowly John’s breath comes back to him, and his heart rate slows, and he can almost feel the acute rush of post-orgasmic hormones flood his bloodstream. His cock softens and slips out of Sherlock’s body unaided because of their awkward positioning, but John can’t be arsed to care about about the rush of fluid that comes with it. His pants are protecting the linens. And in these moments, he’d be alright with never moving again, ever. John heaves a sigh, as sated and blissful as could be.

“Oxytocin,” Sherlock huffs a small laugh against John’s temple. His bunched up t-shirt is damp with sweat against John’s bare chest, the tiny curls at his hairline soaked with sweat. John presses an open mouthed kiss against the line of his neck and tastes salt and sex and Sherlock.

“You reading my mind again, beautiful?”

“Observing,” Sherlock shifts slightly, wriggling a bit, and nuzzles his nose into John’s sweaty hair.

“So soon?”

“I’m always observing you, John. Even after being so vigorously and meticulously fucked.”

“Give me a few minutes before you start using words with so many syllables, love.”

“Apologies,” Sherlock’s fingers start stroking John’s hairline again; he can feel the small callouses from his violin strings against his skin, still exquisitely sensitive. “Sometimes I forget that you have reduced capacities until all the blood returns to your brain.”

“Forget? You? Seems like your “capacities” might also be a bit reduced.”

“I assure you, they are not.”

“Whatever you say, you tit.” John lifts his head out of the crook of Sherlock’s neck; it’s still delightfully heavy and fuzzy. He flexes his neck then turns to kiss the pale, white underside of Sherlock’s forearm where it’s curled around his skull. Sherlock hums contentedly, and wriggles a bit again, but decidedly does not move. John’s okay with it.

After a few minutes--or maybe many minutes, he isn’t sure--John opens his eyes. Only the lamp next to the chair in the corner is on, throwing the bedroom into low, yellow light punctuated by shadows. The digital clock on the dresser under the window reads 9:47. Sherlock is still slumped over him, limbs askew. His breathing is deep and even but he’s not asleep; every few seconds his index finger strokes up and down John’s temple. 

John turns his head again to look down Sherlock’s body. His bare skin is glowing champagne pink in the low, warm light, thighs still flopped askew, the toes of his left foot twisted in the sheets, his right foot completely off the edge of the bed. His softened cock is resting in the crook of his thigh, pale pink and almost delicate, despite what John knows it’s capable of. Dried semen sparkles in the dark hair that cradles his penis and up his abdomen, going nearly as far as his t-shirt, which is still scrunched up around his chest. Sherlock’s left nipple peeks out under the army-green cotton; John can’t resist the urge to lift his hand and stroke it, running his fingertip around the pink tissue and petting the sprinkle of fine, dark hair across his pectorals. The tiny bud of flesh tightens slightly as John lavishes attention to it. John feels a twitch in a groin, just a bit, the kind of low-simmering, slow arousal that he is content to just enjoy, rather than act on. 

John would be absolutely content to just fall asleep right here, before ten o’clock on a Saturday night, Sherlock a soft, quiet, _still_ weight against him. Lord, what has become of them.

Sherlock’s chest rises and falls with his breath, mesmerizing John, lulling him back to a stupor, until his eyes catch sight of the neat, deep shadow just below and to the right of Sherlock’s sternum. Before he can catch himself--he’s generally getting better, he _is_ \--a rush of old fear and grief and absolute _dread_ overwhelms the oxytocin and vasopressin in his bloodstream, and he jerks, body stiffening against Sherlock, his vision flickering. John exhales a ragged breath; the sound of it is deafening in the bedroom.

“Don’t,” Sherlock’s voice is suddenly clear and sharp in his ear. His large hand palms the back of John’s head, pressing their faces minutely closer. John’s eyes flick up; Sherlock’s face is slightly blurry--Christ, he’s crying, he really thought he’d gotten so much better--but his eyes are still closed, pink lips parted just slightly. He looks beautiful and peaceful, and a tiny part of John hates him for it, that he hadn’t had this simple bliss so jarringly interrupted.

“Sh--” his name gets stuck in John’s throat.

“John,” Sherlock says, his eyes opening. His gaze sears into John’s, and John has to blink and look away, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. Sherlock’s right hand reaches and pulls John’s away from his nipple, settling it over the bullet scar on his chest. He curls his fingers around John’s and presses down, effectively smothering the evidence of the betrayal, of how John’s _wife_ almost stole him away. “Everything is alright.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is shaky, his muscles still coiled, like a spring-loaded knife. His jaw is clenched so tight it hurts.

“We’re alright, my dear.” Sherlock only uses endearments when John is like this, and only ever that one. It’s such a Sherlock-endearment, something John could only ever imagine Sherlock saying without irony, and it always makes him smile a bit, no matter how deep his anguish. He suspects that’s exactly why Sherlock says it. He presses John’s hand even harder against his chest. “It’s nearly ten o’clock on Saturday, and we’re in our bed, and you just fucked me so spectacularly I will masturbate to the memory of it while you’re at dreadful conferences on the continent for the rest of my life, and we’re alright.”

John huffs a laugh before he can stop himself, the image so delightfully ridiculous and also the most absolutely perfect, Sherlock-thing to say. He squeezes Sherlock’s fingers and takes a deep breath; his muscles start to release as he exhales. John pushes his face into Sherlock’s neck and lets a few tears fall freely, muscles relaxing further with each breath he takes, until he finally feels back to himself, even if he knows he won’t find the peace he had just a few moments ago.

“‘M sorry, love,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s warm skin. He continues to take deep breaths, in through his nose and out of his mouth, the scent of post-coital Sherlock probably more calming than any breathing techniques.

“No need to be,” John feels the pressure of a kiss on the crown of his head. “I’m sure sometime next week when I’m working my way down to your crotch I will have a bit of a moment. We’re both fairly predictable in that regard.”

John chuckles wetly into Sherlock’s neck then turns to look down their bodies. The light is throwing its shadows onto his own abdomen, several small dark divots, and two large ones, sewn over stomas from the loop colostomy he needed while his colon healed after they removed the bullet and seven inches of his large intestine.

“I thought I was better,” John whispers darkly.

“You are. So am I. But someone once told me we can’t completely write-over the past, and on occasion, some of it is bound to catch up with us.”

John remembers the night he’d whispered that into Sherlock’s hair, only a few months after what might have been the worst times of their lives, when they were both consumed by lies and drugs and an angry assassin with a fake child to match her fake identity who wanted to destroy them both, and knew the best way to do that was to destroy the other. They’d barely been shades of who they were when everything finally came to a head, but they’d made it through. And Sherlock is right: they’re both better now. Not the same, but better.

“Smart bloke.”

“He has his moments,” Sherlock chuckles, pressing a tender kiss against John’s temple. “It’s why I keep him around.”

“You’re a cock,” John kicks Sherlock’s calf, but there’s no rancor in his voice. He feels somewhat level again; Sherlock is remarkably adept at bringing the moment back to earth. Or at least, bringing John back to earth. He sighs and forces himself to sink back into the mattress, and Sherlock. “Thank you. For being you. For being here with me.”

“A small recompense for such amazing shags.”

“Stay forever and I’ll keep shagging you.”

“Consider it done.”

“Alright,” John shifts so his head is back on the pillow next to Sherlock’s. He leans forward and captures his mouth in a kiss, warm and soft. Sherlock sighs out his nose; John can feel him smile through the kiss. He reluctantly pulls away and looks Sherlock directly in the eye. “I’m holding you to that, love.” Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in response and his cheeks flush. John lays his head back down. “Christ, you’re a mess.”

“I believe that’s your fault.”

“Ugh,” John untangles his fingers from Sherlock’s and scratches lightly across the dried semen on his flat belly. “Guess I’m gonna have to scrub you down.”

“Mmmm, don’t want to move.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” John rubs Sherlock’s belly. “And don’t think I can’t tell your stomach is rumbling.”

“I ate dinner. You must have worked up my appetite again.”

“I’m fairly sure I wasn’t the only one involved.” John disentangles himself from Sherlock’s grip and pushed himself up on his right arm. “Tell you what. I’ll give Angelo a call, see if I can convince him to send some cannoli over.”

“I’m sure he can,” Sherlock says, stretching out on the bed, his back arching like a cat. He groans contentedly, a warm, deep rumble from his chest and brings both hands to rest on his stomach. “May take an hour or so.”

“Which is just enough time for me to give you a thorough scrub in the shower,” John looks down at Sherlock, deliberately covering the bullet scar again with his left hand. If Sherlock notices he doesn’t say anything--John is sure he notices--but only blinks up at John. He looks soft and lovely and absolutely debauched, eyes glowing and cheeks still pink, dark curls mussed over his forehead. God, John adores him.

“Be careful not to scrub too hard,” he quirks a sly smile. “Otherwise I’ll get distracted and we’ll miss the doorbell.”

“If you get distracted, you’ll have to wait,” John teases, ruffling Sherlock’s hair. “Nothing keeps me from cannoli.”

“So I’ll be spending the rest of my life second to cannoli?”

“Mmmm, yes,” John leans down and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He takes ahold of Sherlock’s left hand, rubbing over the simple, silver ring on his third finger. “The rest of your life,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s mouth. 

“I suppose that’s a cross I can bear,” Sherlock smiles brilliantly, craning up to kiss him again, and John can feel the simple bliss seeping back under his skin.

“You can leave the gun, take the cannoli,” John teases against Sherlock’s mouth.

“What?” Sherlock eyes him, genuinely confused, the small crinkle forming at the bridge of his nose.

“Unbelievable,” John mock sighs, and leans down to kiss him again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone writes that they eat tiramisu from Angelo's but I hate tiramisu and wanted to make a Godfather joke Sherlock doesn't get so I decided John loves cannoli. I don't know if Angelo's serves Sicilian but I don't care.
> 
> Mmmmm...cannoli.


End file.
